


adamantine

by myhandisempty



Series: superhuman au [1]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Dean is literally indestructible son, M/M, Roman is basically Colossus, Superhuman Au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 17:09:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6574726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhandisempty/pseuds/myhandisempty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enough time passes that shadows shift around them as daylight begins to crest outside. Roman’s breathing is deep and easy under his hands, a slight hitch present whenever the cutting sting catches beyond the haze of whiskey Dean had plied him with earlier, taking more than a few healthy swigs straight from the bottle himself, after the dirty work was done. “I showed you mine,” Roman says suddenly, startling in the silence, a rough edge to his voice.</p><p>What very well may have been a near death experience shouldn't shake them so much. Dean and Roman search for reminders of invulnerability anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	adamantine

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: there is what I personally feel is a not too graphic, extremely brief scene mentioning do-it-yourself surgical-type care. Skip the first quarter of the story to avoid that completely if you feel you should.
> 
> A discussion on superpowers for an AU looking at most everyone in WWE and not just these two somehow turned into me promising superhuman evil boyfriend smut? I don't remember technically agreeing to this, but it happened anyway. Minus the evil part.

The greatest crime in this world is that there isn’t a guidebook for people like them.

 

To be fair, Dean wouldn’t read it if there were. Experience is the best teacher, he’s always maintained. “Yeah, well, there are some experiences I don’t need,” Roman would say — admittedly, _has_ said — to that, but every time Dean finds some new sort of trouble to get lost in, Roman’s right there behind him, or, better yet, at his side. That’s for better and for worse, and right now, those cold eyes piercing and narrowed at Dean, he’s willing to call it the latter.

 

His shoulder itches so severely it’s a constant burn. Back when they were in immediate danger, Dean’s skin was knitting itself back together with a force that was nearly violent. The wound is sealed back up, now, but he still wants to run fingernails over it until it reopens.

 

There are plenty of people out in the universe like them. Or, close enough. No one’s quite like _them_ , at least as far as Dean’s ever found, though he’s never been one to go looking. Still, there’s no one to tell you the important things. Things like rapid healing isn’t as glamorous as you’d think. Especially the regeneration part — he did wonder out loud years back, that once, drunk and lying half over Roman, his arm outstretched, “F’I cut off a finger, you think it’d grow back?” and Roman had frowned and told him, _I’m not sure but let’s not find out_. It does grow back. He didn’t find out that night, but he does know now. It’s also far from painless. Rapid healing is just that — swift and hurried, not neat or tidy, leaving raised skin and scars in the wake, and it hurts nearly as much as the initial injury. Maybe more.

 

Roman is a better shield than Dean could ever be, but that didn’t stop him from trying, tonight, not when he’d noticed Roman with his back turned to the ambush, that split second before everything went to hell. When he’s prepared, Roman can stop bullets with his body, cause them to ricochet in every which direction, but Dean can only slow them down with skin and sinew and bone. He did the best he could, but all he has to show for it is a hole clean through his shoulder, half of a matching one in the back of Roman’s own.

 

What no one tells you is that it doesn’t matter what angle you’re coming from. Good, bad, dark, light — the shady greys he prefers to operate in — once you’re _different_ , _other_ , hospitals are out of the question. Government experimentation seems like such a far-off, dystopian concept until you’re living it. There are a lot of things they’re willing to do when they know your body will bounce right back.

 

Anyway.

 

The point is, sometimes it’s easy to forget you’re unique. To forget that anywhere with people poking and prodding at you is a less than ideal sign. It’s something nobody really thinks twice about. Dean’s certainly never had to. Not until he’s holding pressure to a wound that won’t seem to stop bleeding and Roman’s howling as he tries to drag them both away. Playing doctor has never suited him — before Roman, there was no one to practice on — and now, the rare times they need it, Dean doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.

 

“Would you fuckin’ hold still?” He moves around to Roman’s back, inspects the area he has to work with. They don’t have the greatest lighting for amateur surgery. It’s three steps away from being pitch black, and Dean’s vision is still a little fuzzy from the knock he took to his head. The concussion has faded, but a pounding ache is taking its place. Roman won’t stop muttering under his breath, and that’s distracting, too. Dean pauses with the pliers halfway to his shoulder, hesitates with a few deep breaths. His hand is trembling. “Can’t you just — do your — _swish-swish_ thing” complete with descriptive motions that Roman misses in their entirety “or whatever and push the damn thing out?”

 

“You think I haven’t tried?” Roman snarls back. Thirty years of being so unused to physical pain that he’s a sniveling baby whenever he feels it. As if Dean is ever feeling anything else. It’s hard to be too bitter about that, though. See, what they don’t tell you is that steel may be impenetrable, but it’s heavy as fuck to hoist around. Roman may not be human, exactly, but he’s still a person — as much as any of them are people, really — and he carries a lot of weight with him. His eyes betray a near constant state of exhaustion (and Dean can’t say he envies that, the debilitating effects of Roman’s powers, while Dean’s own have never done anything other than make him feel wholly _alive_ ). Tonight, though, they’re sharp and clear, adrenaline — or the low lighting — causing the pupils to dilate. Any other time, that look on his face would have Dean’s mind racing toward much more enjoyable things than digging a bullet out of his best friend’s back. Maybe later. For now, though: saving lives.

 

“Bite down on something, probably,” he mutters, glad he can’t actually see Roman’s expression for this part. “Speakin’ from professional experience, this is gonna hurt like a motherfucker.”

 

Roman laughs, pained as it is, and grabs Dean’s balled up t-shirt. “That a technical term?” He asks before shoving the torn, stained fabric between his teeth. Beads of sweat are rolling down the nape of his neck and his complexion still seems a bit pasty. Shit, will he need a transfusion? How are they supposed to manage something like that? Does Roman even know what blood type he is? Fuck if Dean knows his own. He can’t quite bring himself to chuckle too, barely resisting the urge to scratch at repaired skin and vessels until blood wells to the surface.

 

“One…two!” He goes then, before Roman’s muscles can tense too tightly, driving the pliers into the wound.

 

Roman _screams_. It’s a harrowing sound, muffled as it is, one that has bile rushing up his throat and Dean wanting to rush through this, but that only increases the chances of him screwing up. He can stomach more than most people have ever seen, but Dean doesn’t think he can do this again.

 

Some torn skin, needle, fishing line, and plenty of antibacterial cream later, the worst of it might be over. Finally allowing himself to breathe again, Dean stands there, still at Roman's back, and massages fingers into his uninjured shoulder.

 

Enough time passes that shadows shift around them as daylight begins to crest outside. Roman’s breathing is deep and easy under his hands, a slight hitch present whenever the cutting sting catches beyond the haze of whiskey Dean had plied him with earlier, taking more than a few healthy swigs straight from the bottle himself, after the dirty work was done. “I showed you mine,” Roman says suddenly, startling in the silence, a rough edge to his voice. Still pain, present and running thick through it, but a different sort. This type of bleeding isn't visible.

 

Dean sighs, circles around to crouch in front of Roman. “Look at that, good as new.” The shoulder in question is rotated, stiff as it is, and Roman reaches out to run fingers over the new skin, angry red and raised. By tomorrow, it will sink into the rest of the patterns littering his skin, a roadmap of fistfights and sharp objects and Dean’s own carelessness, and neither of them will think twice about it, if he's lucky. Now, though, Roman bends down, down, down despite the pull at his injury and presses his lips to what remains of Dean’s.

 

What they don’t tell you is that being indestructible is not the same as being invincible. He still doesn’t know, when Roman changes, just how much of him turns hard and cold, if it’s only skin deep or if it sinks into his organs, transforms his entire bloodstream, but Dean’s glad that in these moments, at least, his heart is a living, beating thing. Doesn’t want to think too hard about it stopping, ever.

 

He slides into Roman’s lap like second nature, the other man’s thighs trapped between his, and Roman’s good arm wraps around his back and holds him there, pressing them close together. Dean takes the makeshift bandages that used to be pieces of Roman’s shirt and ties them carefully around the cleansed wound. Roman grits his teeth with a hiss but doesn’t complain again, and he’s following the movement with those steel grey eyes that always give him away when Dean leans in and returns that light kiss over the top of his handiwork.

 

He brings his face right back to Roman’s, stares him down as the silence surrounds them, comfortable and warm, in a way. “You’ll live,” Dean finally says, though there are still so many other things to worry about. Things like blood loss and infection and who the fuck got the drop on them, tonight. The two of them have always been suited to vengeance, to fire and wrath, though, and they’ll get their answers, one way or another.

 

For now, Dean does some tracing of his own, hand ghosting over the dark shading of Roman’s tattoo. He leans forward to run his tongue over it — under the salt of sweat it’s always tasted metallic, both of the earth and something decisively man made, a stannic tang that won’t leave his mouth for days, better than the flavor of his own blood slick between his teeth — and Roman shudders underneath him. “Show me,” he asks, begging for it, almost, that reminder that Roman is more durable than the events of tonight have made him seem, and Roman grins at him through eyes struggling to focus and flexes his fist.

 

Those lines so often mistaken for ink shift and vacillate, bubbling to the surface in a way Dean doesn’t have words for, thick, heavily designed plates replacing the skin of Roman’s arm. The hard metal panels slide into place across his body with a quiet, echoing _schlink_ that fills the silent room, and Dean’s breath is coming in pants. It’s beautiful, a fucking work of art, the way skin and steel meld together before one gives way to the other, a rich gunmetal color covering Roman’s chest, the interlocking plates engraved with the same lines and patterns that form his tattoo.

 

He’s hard just from watching. Dean loops his left arm around Roman’s neck, careful to avoid the hurt side even in his rush, and crashes their lips together. “Fuck,” he gasps into Roman’s mouth. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days.” His free hand slides across the space where Roman’s abdomen has become a thick sheet of metal, a hard plane considerably less warm than Dean’s skin against him. He frees his mouth long enough to bite into the wrapping around the vanished injury, Roman not so much as flinching beneath him. If only he could keep this up all the time, tirelessly, freeing Dean of the constant worry he’s never felt for anything or anyone before. He’s lost a lot of shit on the rise from where he started to the heights he’s reached. Roman’s the one thing he won’t allow to slip through his fingers.

 

A metal hand runs through his hair, cups the side of his face like it’s something fragile. That hand could crush his jaw to powder. Dean shivers, tries to picture how long it would take him to recover from that. “Like you aren’t literally too stubborn to die.” A shadow passes between them at the words, catching in Dean’s throat as it travels from Roman’s to his. Roman kisses him again, softer, sweeter, in an attempt to soothe it, and that pain in his shoulder pounds in his chest, makes his whole body _ache_. “Want you to talk to me.”

 

Dean laughs at him, and if it sounds a little wet they both ignore it. “Course you do.” He runs a thumb over the area where Roman’s nipple normally is, forces a grin that becomes something real when the metal slides away, allowing him to play with soft skin. “What _I_ want is your whole body unforgiving. Want you to fuckin’ wreck me. We’re both indestructible, right? Let’s see who gives first.”

 

Roman groans, half pleasure and half exasperation as Dean sucks a mark into the pulse point of his neck. “That’s a terrible idea.” The downside of the metal is that it has next to no sensation; Roman feels pressure but nothing else, can tell that his fist meets someone's face but can't feel the pleasurable crack of bone beneath it. Can feel Dean’s hand on his chest, but not the light tickle of the caress. But for whatever reason, the slight intoxication or the heavy exhaustion falling or the bliss of Dean’s hands on him, his control is slipping over the expanse of steel, the rippling of plates back and forth as fascinating a thing as Dean has ever seen. They shift into place once more, a covering over his entire upper body from the neck down, and Roman grabs Dean under his thighs, lifts him up as he stands from the chair.

 

“Fuuuuhuuhuuck.” The display of strength, nothing over the top, is only the barest taste of what Dean is looking for, but damn if it isn’t working for him. He grips tightly with the arm still behind Roman’s neck, bringing the other one around to lock his hold in, pulling his chest against the cooling metal of the other man’s and grinding himself into him as best he can. Roman slams Dean into the opposite wall, tilts his head for a kiss.

 

Over time, he’s gotten more used to the idea of being rough with Dean. He’s never reckless, of course, and he hates seeing marks he left join the patchwork of scars, but Roman’s body was made for destruction, pure and simple. It’s easier, sometimes, to say things with force and a fist. Right now, every word on Dean’s tongue is _unbreakable_. Is _unyielding_. Is _watch us, cut down to our most bare, and still relentless._ Roman’s hand tightens around his thigh, squeezes hard enough to bring tears, Dean gasping under his mouth. Dean wonders if it’s truly a case of him not knowing how bruising his grip is. If he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, what effect it’s having on Dean.

 

It’s a few minutes of stumbling, of banging into walls — Roman’s elbow leaves a dent in one — and Dean might have laughed if the hours leading up to this were any different. He’s deposited onto a bed eventually, though, the pillows and sheets not as soft against his back as the slide of Roman’s hair through his fingers when he pulls him down. “C’mon. Know it’ll hurt later.” Dean writhes against him, letting a hand drift over the shoulder that will be injured when he changes back again, attempting to goad him on. “Know you wanna feel indestructible. They got you. Aren’t you fuckin’ pissed?”

 

Roman pauses a moment, that fist twisting in the bed sheets, silver flashing in the early morning light streaming in through the half-closed blinds. “Not at you,” he whispers, right up against Dean’s lips. There’s a tremor in his other hand as it traces Dean’s collarbone, as solid as it is. Dean smiles, simultaneously feels every piece inside of him drop two inches.

 

“Sap.” There are so many different emotions hanging in the air around them, too much of most of them. Dean sighs, long and drawn out, supposes if he can’t stop it, he can at least use it to his advantage. “Humor me. Thought you were gonna bleed to death on the carpet.”

 

“You did not.” Roman’s beaming down at him, every part of him appearing brighter, better, than he had earlier on, until his thumb hits the scar of Dean’s injury. A shadow of a frown passes over his face, then, at least half serious. “No, you know what? I am mad at you.” His hand slides into Dean’s hair, tugs at it roughly. Some of the ends get snagged in the space between metal plates, and Dean hisses at the sting in his scalp as his eyes slide shut, grin so wide he feels like his face will split. “Diving in front of bullets, Dean? Really? How dare you?” The grip on his head tightens, and a thumb begins pressing hard against the meat of his shoulder on the other side. “How _fucking_ dare you? Do you not realize how much it scares the shit out of me to see you be brave and self-sacrificing and act like your well-being means nothing?”

 

That tremor in his hand is in his voice, now, and when Dean allows his eyes to open into slits, Roman’s entire face is a wound that hasn’t closed yet, festering with despair. He knows it’s the wrong thing to say, and yet— “Doesn’t it? I know it don’t look like much, but at least my body can piece itself back together.” _Yours can’t_ , he doesn’t tell Roman. Doesn’t say that he’d do it a hundred times over.

 

Roman doesn’t need him to. “Shut up.” The soft sound of utter heartache is lost between them when he brings their mouths back together, Roman’s fingers making a clattering noise against the button of Dean’s jeans. Five seconds and an impatient growl later, the metal on metal sound stops and Dean feels the pants being pulled down his legs all at once, going from half clothed to fully naked in the blink of an eye. Before he knows it, Roman’s done the same, and that ache in Dean, the one he can’t name, wants something he’s never had.

 

“All metal,” he exhales, Roman’s hands cooling his skin just enough. Dean’s always run hot — has to, a constant fever state to keep up with nonstop healing — and Roman’s equal but opposite, cold with the steel running under his skin. He thinks he’s hardwired to love that more, now, covers up in layers to avoid the touch of anything else too cold against him. “Turn your whole body metal, the whole thing. Fuck me like that.”

 

Roman laughs down where he’s massaging the muscles of his legs a little too roughly, muffles the sound against the jut of Dean’s hipbone. “That’s weird,” he says, right before biting into the v leading south, which isn’t a no.

 

“‘S not,” Dean debates with him, thrusting up into the air when Roman’s breath falls heavy over his cock. “It’s still you.”

 

“‘Nother time.” It’s only then that he hears the fatigue creeping into Roman’s tone. He must be achy and tired and hurting, and they’ve stayed up far later than normal, even. Dean can be fair, sometimes.

 

“I’ll be sure to remind you when you try pullin’ this again.” Legs around Roman’s waist again, he flips them both over, letting the other man rest beneath him, groaning at the friction of his cock rubbing against a now flesh-and-blood stomach. Strength is what he wants, to remember that Roman isn’t going anywhere, but if that’s not something Roman can offer tonight, Dean will be the strong one for now. Lube is pressed into his hand and he rolls his eyes. Unnecessary, as far as he’s concerned, but whatever Roman wants, he’ll get.

 

Dean backs up, a little, legs splaying wide enough to give him both comfort and room. He doesn’t think much about letting two fingers slide in — it burns enough to sting, enough to have a sweet kind of sigh escaping his mouth. His thighs clench tightly as a shiver runs up his spine. “You’re so good to me,” Roman whispers, watching him as if Dean stretching himself, writhing and moaning, ready for something more, is a gift he’s being given, and Dean flushes down past his neck. It’s like the split second a heavy weight is lifted off his chest, still painful and yet easier to breathe, the realization that they’re both the only person in the world that matters to the other. He has to pause, to lean forward and kiss Roman soundly, kiss him breathless, again.

 

Roman tugs at his hip, pulls him forward to settle over his cock, and Dean hastens to be even closer to him, sinks down until their hips meet. It hurts, fire coursing through him, and Roman cups one hand to his face as if he knows, the cool feel of his skin calming that heat until it’s a smoldering Dean can manage. Dean can handle pain, has made it this far solely on his ability to embrace it, to twist it for his own use, but this is something else. A years old hurt that aches before hands are even laid on him.

 

When he’s feeling less likely to collapse, Dean starts rolling his hips, one hand over the steel of Roman’s chest, the other tangled in sheets just for something to hang on to. The palm that had settled against his cheek trails down as Dean rocks into him in earnest, grabbing the same linens trapped in Dean’s grip. A surrogate for holding each other, Dean thinks, and abandons the fabric in favor of more of Roman’s skin.

 

The metal is shifting again; one moment Dean is holding flesh and bone, the next his skin is being pinched between interlocking plates. The little bites of discomfort feel like home, like a place to belong after a lifetime spent without one, and Dean wants to crawl between the cracks in Roman’s armor, take root under his skin and call it his.

 

“Feel fucking amazing,” Dean pants out, adjusts the angle of his body until he’s fucking himself on Roman fast and hard, deep as he can take him. Roman groans out an agreement, fist closing around his dick, and Dean is gasping for air, torn between pushing into the tight grip around him and maintaining the rhythm causing the exquisite pleasure to curl in his stomach, all the way into his toes. He’s so out of it, so close that he nearly misses the expression on Roman’s face, distracted but calculating, before he’s lifted again.

 

Roman slips out of him as he adjusts to support Dean’s weight, but he slides right back in when they’re balanced again. Dean is hanging in midair, feet dangling before he thinks to wrap them around the waist in front of him, Roman manipulating his body and thrusting into him, and it’s a miracle his brain doesn’t fucking melt right there. A hand trails over his waist, lingers there for a long few seconds before it returns to find a better hold. “Can’t get rid of me that easy,” Roman says, out of breath, but Dean can’t find it in himself to wish the strain away. “Right here, I’m not goin’ anywhere, babe. Not now, not ever.”

 

Arms around Roman’s neck, Dean’s mouth collides with his, and he tries to breathe in the other’s air, the promise he wants to keep, share it all with him. He comes between them, messy and unannounced, steel and skin branding him, saying Roman belongs here, too. It’s not too long after that Roman follows, still close enough to the bed to collapse back against it, Dean falling heavy on top of him, chests pressing tighter together with each long, heaving breath.

 

If Dean wrote that book, the first sentence on the very first page would be _Don’t trust anyone_.

 

“You’re here.” The words are comforting, nearly as solid as Roman. If only he could carry them around with him, a physical thing. Roman’s hand, in his once more, does the job as well as anything.

 

He rolls off of Roman, covered in his own release and, he realizes belatedly, a few smears of dried blood. Whose, he’s not sure. Roman, for his part, reaches an arm out to pull him back in, the metal disappearing beneath his skin for the night.

 

Dean’s always been shit at following his own advice.

 

The bandage around Roman's wound was lost, somewhere along the way, and he’s slow to move, tilting onto his side to get his back off the mattress. Dean thinks about wrapping the sheet around him, tying it off. “Yeah,” Roman says, twisting his body in an attempt to find ease. “Got big plans, you and me. Can’t miss out on that.”

 

“Plenty of time to take over the world tomorrow.” Dean takes Roman’s hand, lips rubbing gently across the knuckles. Thinks back to a time they didn’t know each other, when it was that fist kissing his face. Love at first sight, he’s sure. The only kind he’d accept, at least. “Just try not to bleed all over the sheets.”


End file.
